


Confidence Man

by Nefhiriel



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Emotional Abuse, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Injury, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-20
Updated: 2011-05-20
Packaged: 2017-10-19 14:56:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nefhiriel/pseuds/Nefhiriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal thought this part of his life was long behind him. He was wrong. But he's not fifteen anymore. This time he knows who he is, and who he has.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confidence Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kriadydragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kriadydragon/gifts).



> Written in response to [a prompt from kriadydragon](http://collarcorner.livejournal.com/3443.html?thread=73331#t73331). Many thanks to my beta, Imbecamiel, for all her hard work.

The years hadn't been kind to him.

Well, actually, if Neal were brutally honest, the years looked as if they'd played a cruel joke on the man. But Neal had a memory for faces—and he would never forget this one.

Robert Dyer. Short. Stocky. His brown hair was now flecked with silver. Neal had always thought he had an ugly mouth. His lips were _loose_ looking, sloppy and haphazard. They smiled, but never pleasantly.

Oh, yeah. And he had packed an impressive punch back when Neal had known him. He'd done some kind of boxing, or mixed martial arts, and was ambidextrous. His left hook had been just as good as his right. At least they'd felt the same on the receiving end.

Neal's composure temporarily abandoned him, confident stride slowing. He almost tripped over a crack in the sidewalk. He _never_ tripped over cracks in the sidewalk. Not for years, at least. A con man didn't trip unless it was part of _the plan_. A con man was supposed to know where he was going.

But for a moment Neal was fifteen again: reaching for adulthood, trapped behind the wall of “not-quite-there-yet” that was puberty, and trying to figure out who he'd be on the other side.

Then, to Neal's surprise, he realized that Dyer wasn't looking at _him_. He was preparing to walk past, as if he hadn't seen, or hadn't recognized, Neal at all. For all intents and purposes, at this point in time, they were just two strangers, passing at random on the street. Two strangers, without any reason to acknowledge each other.

“ _Caffrey._ ”

Neal froze. But he couldn't turn. Too many memories resurfaced at hearing his name said with just _that_ blend of casual friendliness and insinuated command. They were memories he thought he'd disowned, choosing to forget as distant events unimportant to the Neal Caffrey who existed _now_.

“I thought I taught you better than to turn your back on me when I talk to you.”

“You tried to teach me a lot of things, Rob.” Neal finally turned, an easy smile on his face that didn't come easily at all.

This blocks around June's house had begun to feel like home. The radius set by the tracker could be confining, sure. A _lot_ confining, sometimes. But the limitation on his freedom also spelled out clear-cut boundaries. As long as he was within those boundaries, he was okay. He was where he was supposed to be, indisputably. Even according to Peter.

This didn't feel “okay.” This was the kind of trouble he'd expect for cutting the anklet and running. Dyer belonged “out there,” in that forbidden place he'd lived in before being sentenced to model citizen behaviour. Dyer didn't belong _here,_ on his turf, challenging his right to a walk. Just a _walk._ Another thing even Peter wouldn't have objected to.

“Well, well. Looks like you found some backbone after all, kid.”

“I'm not a kid.”

Dryer laughed, drawing closer, conversationally, as a few other pedestrians hurried past. A fine, misty rain had been developing all day, and as gloomy day began to shift into gloomy evening anyone with a shred of sense was heading indoors for a Friday night in front of the television. Neal had been too restless, and so he'd opted instead for the less sensible Friday evening stroll through the bone-chilling drizzle.

“You said that the first time we met, too,” Dyer scoffed. “Never took you for the redundant type, Neal.”

“Yeah, well, I never took you for threadbare, homeless drifter type, either, Rob,” Neal retorted with a shrug, scanning Dyer's well-worn outfit. “You need some cash?” He reached for his wallet. If getting rid of Dyer could be that simple, he'd gladly give him everything he had on hand.

But Dyer cancelled the movement, slinging a heavy arm across Neal's shoulders, pulling him in the direction of the nearby alleyway. It was a companionable gesture to all outward appearances.

“Let's have a little talk, you and I, huh?” Dyer suggested. But there was no mere suggestion in the way his fingers gripped Neal's shoulder. “You never even sent me a postcard. Not a single one. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten me. But you haven't forgotten me, have you, Neal?” They'd reached the privacy of the ally. Dyer released his hold on Neal with a small shove, backing him towards the scum-covered brick wall. “I told you I'd find you.”

 _“'ll find you. I'll kill you.”_ Neal had been trying not to recall those words since the moment he laid eyes on Dyer. Actually, he'd been trying not to think about them for a lot longer than that. Somewhere along the line, he'd even succeeded in relegating Dyer and his threat to the realm of “monsters under the bed”—the realm of younger fears.

He was all grown up, now. And he wished his heart would quit hammering frantically like it had when he was fifteen and too scared to so much as twitch wrong around Dyer.

“We had some fun, didn't we, Neal? Made some good money together.”

“You mean _I_ stole some good money, and you had fun with it.”

“Someone had to be the brains of the outfit.” Dyer levelled him with a haughty look.

“Yeah,” Neal agreed, and tilted his head back with equal pride. He knew enough, looking back, to know _exactly_ what Dyer had contributed during their six months of “partnership”: the motivation of threats—and occasionally, the carried-out threats.

Dyer was just smart enough to recognize brilliance when he saw it, and to know how to manipulate people—forcefully, if not with subtlety—for his own purposes. He was no con man, and he was no thief. That had been Neal's _small_ contributing role. There was no art to Dyer's act, no finesse. Just bruising force and broken bones.

“I can't decide if you're Sykes or Fagin,” Neal mused aloud, before he could stop himself.

Dryer frowned with true confusion.

“ _Oliver Twist_ ,” Neal supplied. “I'm leaning towards Bill Sykes. Because the last time we talked like this—”

Grabbing him by the front of the shirt, Dyer slammed him into the wall with sudden force, snarling: “—I broke your arm. Yeah, I remember, like it was yesterday. You want to pick up where we left off?”

Neal grunted at the pain of impact. Dyer had always made him feel claustrophobic, never more so than at times like this, with his fist slammed against Neal's sternum, pinning him, restricting his air. Whatever the years had _not_ done to improve his looks, Dyer's strength seemed to have weathered the time better.

“You have some more smart-Alec remarks to make, Neal?” Dyer continued. “They always were your speciality.”

That was something Peter would undoubtedly agree with, Neal decided—and the stray thought flooded him with instant relief, recalling him to himself. He wasn't a drifting fifteen-year-old anymore. This time, there were people who'd actually notice if he disappeared off the face of the earth. A few of them might even care. Peter had a badge, and a gun, and a _brain,_ and he'd proven he knew how to use all three to track Neal down.

Despite his silence, some his triumph must have shown, because Dyer gave a growl of frustration, and when he hauled Neal forward to slam him back into the wall a second time, Neal's head made contact, too. Blackness edged at the corners of his vision for a moment, and he tasted blood from accidentally biting the inside of his cheek.

“I'm giving you a second chance, Neal. I could kill you right now. Snap your scrawny neck, just like that.” Dyer snapped his fingers. “But you know what I'm going to do, instead?” When Neal didn't humour him by dignifying that with answer, he gave Neal a shake that made his sore back and pounding skull scream in protest.

“W-what?” Neal stuttered, already tensing for a blow, and wondering if he dared attempt a knee to Dyer's groin. He didn't really have enough space to throw a punch with any weight behind it, but _that_ he could manage. He wondered if he could do it, and actually _run_ , afterwards, considering the way his head was spinning. Despite the reckless tendency of his smart-Alec mouth, he did have the common sense to realize that making violent people mad was a bad idea, especially when they had a firm grip on the front of your shirt, and especially when they'd threatened to kill you. Dyer was short, and none too impressive to look at, but Neal knew the kind of violence he was capable of. And he was definitely mad, by any definition of the word.

“I'm going to let you invite me home for a drink. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

Neal looked at Dyer's grinning face, and abruptly brought his knee up with all the force he could. Dyer's howl bore witness to his aim. Neal shoved him away and ran.

This time it was his chest that bore the brunt of impact as Dyer tackled him from behind. Neal tried to break the fall with his hands, but clipped his chin on the pavement all the same. But even as a yelp of pain tried to break from him Dyer had already locked an arm around his throat and planted a knee in the small of his back.

“Now you're just getting _predictable,_ Caffrey.” Dyer's voice was strangled, strained with rage and pain.

“Made you...sing soprano...then, too,” Neal choked around the pressure on his throat.

Darkness was gathering in earnest now, the streetlamps making orange pools of light. With a sinking sense of resignation, he realized he hadn't even cleared the alley in the course of his brief bid for freedom. _Pathetic_. Not that there was much ready help strolling by on a night like tonight. Certainly, there would be no one lingering long enough in this soggy weather to bother investigating the noises coming from the alleyway.

The knee on his back pressed harder, as if Dyer was considering snapping his spine for real.

“You listening, Neal?” Dyer's breath ghosted across the side of his face as he leaned down, close to Neal's ear.

Neal shivered as he felt the wetness from the pavement seep into his clothes. He had no choice but to answer, meekly,“Yes”—and writhe inside at the sound of his own deferential tone.

“Good. One more stunt like that, and they'll be picking you up in the morning with the rest of the trash in that dumpster over there.” Dyer increased the pressure on Neal's throat until Neal was gasping for each breath. “Don't think I won't do it, kid. You're not _that_ irreplaceable. You hear me, Neal?”

A taxi splashed by in the street ahead. Neal watched it go, and struggled for breath to wheeze: “Hear...you, Rob.”  
 _Not that irreplaceable?_ Inwardly, the rebel in him laughed at Rob's words, and maybe he was becoming just a bit giddy from the oxygen deprivation, because it struck him as inordinately funny. _Then what're you doing here, letting me knee you in the groin and get away with it?_

Not, of course, that he was currently feeling like he was “getting away” with _anything_ , exactly. His head was spinning. He felt sick. His suit was slowly being ruined as he lay there, getting the life choked out of him by Robert “He-Man” Dyer. Peter would find him in some landfill, in a _ruined suit._ Oh, yeah, and he'd be dead by then, too.

Why hadn't he changed into something more casual before going for a walk? Why had he given in to the urge to go for a walk in the _first_ place? Why did it have to be an idiot like _Dyer_ who got him in the end? The guy made defeat at Keller's hand sound like an honorable alternative.

But just as his fading thoughts began to diminish in their pleading— _dear God, don't let my murderer be a moron like this_ —the pressure on his throat eased. It was replaced by screaming pain from his scalp, as Dyer grabbed a fist-full of hair to help “guide” Neal back to his feet.

“Just you and me again, then, huh Neal?” He gave Neal a comradely thump on the back that made Neal moan. “Lead on. Time to see that humble abode of yours. You better have your cellar stocked. A good red wine would do the trick. You do have something nice on hand for an old friend dropping by, right kid?”

“Yeah... Yeah, Rob. Whatever you want.”

Neal stumbled twice on their way to June's, and his hand shook as he poured the wine.

***

He'd gotten drunk last night—not just buzzed, or pleasantly loopy, but certifiably, can't-walk-the-line (can't- _see_ -the-line) _drunk_.

The two of them had sat there in Neal's living room, as if they really were the bonafide “old friends” Dyer liked to pretend they were, and they'd drunk their way through copious amounts of expensive wine. Neal had learned from hard experience that Dyer didn't like to drink alone, and tended to get... grouchy if he thought his companion wasn't keeping up. And right then, Neal had really needed to pick his battles. So they had both drunk until Neal hardly felt the pain Dyer himself had inflicted just hours ago.

He'd laughed at stupid jokes. _Dyer's_ stupid jokes. There might've even been a few “knock-knock”s mutually sallied about. Neal was trying hard not to remember if the words “a man walked into a bar” had actually crossed his lips. You couldn't sink much lower than that.

He had sat in a ruined suit, gulping vintage wine with a man who couldn't have pronounced the label on the bottle while _sober,_ and Neal had done it all smiling.

All of which meant Neal pretty much hated himself when he woke up the next morning, and for more reasons than the hangover, penance for his revelry. But he hated himself for that, too, and dealing with said hangover was much simpler than dealing with the accompanying self-reproach. He didn't need to upbraid himself with words like “idiot” right now. He was too busy _being_ an idiot, and bemoaning the consequences.

He took his time showering, shoving aside guilty thoughts of June's water bill as he let a steady stream of not-quite-scalding water restore him to something resembling humanness. The water was for a good cause. June had left for the weekend—but she would've understood. What she would have probably had less understanding for was Neal bringing home Dyer, and the two of them getting themselves disgustingly, helplessly drunk. At least Dyer had been lucid enough to _leave_ for the night, instead of passing out on the couch. Neal honestly didn't care if he'd made it all the way back to... wherever he was currently staying. The fact that he'd made it all the way out of the house had been enough.

The shower helped loosened some of the stiff muscles in his back and neck, but it was still with ginger, limited movements that he began his morning routine.

But while he worked on autopilot, his mind buzzed with a fever of thoughts. There was one exchange from last night that he remembered with certainty:

 _“See you...'morrow, Neal. I'll... come fer lunch.”_

 _Neal, leaning against the door frame, snorted derisively. “No'way. Leave, n'...never c'm back. Hate you...Rob. You're ugly...n' your clothes are ugly, 'n your breath stinks...n' I never had fun with you.” He shook his head back and forth in a sloppy effort, emphasizing: “Never. No fun at all. Hate you...really, a_ lot.” __

_There were angry drunks, and happy drunks. But Neal, apparently, was set on becoming an_ honest _drunk. For a change, the truth rolled glibly off his tongue. It felt nice. He laughed at the resulting bug-eyed expression from Dyer._

 _He stopped laughing when Dyer planted a fist in his face, sending him sprawling backwards._

 _“Lunchtime,” Dyer warned, panting with the exertion, looming over Neal. “You be here...'r else.”_

Those parting words sounded cryptic, even ludicrous, by the light of day. But Neal felt the menacing resolve behind them viscerally, without needing, or wanting, it spelled out. There had been the threat of murder in Dyer's eyes, and Neal believed it. In many ways Robert Dyer was the same man Neal had known all those years ago, a man who followed base passions like giving into them was his creed in life. But there was also a new desperation to him. A new savageness.

Maybe he'd been a coward to let Dyer manipulate him like he had—but maybe he'd also been doing the only sensible thing. Because Dyer had scared him then, and, even “all grown up,” he realized he was _still_ scared of him.

He would also rather die than go back to being Dyer's personal thief. Which was fortunate, because that just might be the result of one more wisecrack.

Yeah. Death by wisecrack. That was going out in a real Caffrey-style blaze of glory.

Or, he could run again. He'd escaped from Dyer before, after all—and it had taken Dyer long enough to find him again. If he'd really _found_ him at all, this time. The more Neal thought about it, the more things didn't add up. For one thing, Dyer had all but passed him by on the street, seeming to only belatedly recognize him. Theatric suspense was hardly Dyer's style. “ _Style_ ” didn't enter into the man's vocabulary.

No...it didn't make sense. If Dyer had really found Neal, wouldn't he have been waiting for him at June's? But he hadn't been. And, more than that, he'd subtly pressed for Neal to take the lead when they'd headed for his “humble abode.” He hadn't given any indication that he was aware of Neal's status as “pet con” for the FBI—if he _had_ known, Neal was pretty sure he would've taken every opportunity rub Neal's nose in it.

Dyer hadn't known. It was all a monumental coincidence, and no testament to Dyer's intelligence, after all. That was something. Actually, that was a whole lot more than “something.” It meant Neal still had the advantage over Dyer by way of a functioning brain.

If he left _now_...

Neal swore as he was recalled, nicking himself with the razor he'd been using to shave. A lazy trail of blood made a rivulet down his cheek. Grabbing a Kleenex, he pressed it to the cut and glared at his reflection. The mirror showed him a ragged man: pale, strained, expression stony. His chin was bruised from clipping the ground, and, thanks to Dyer's parting gift, his right eye was also turning a spectacular shade of purple-black. He didn't want to think about what his back looked like.

 _A wreck_ , Neal self-diagnosed mercilessly. What would Peter say when Neal walked in on Monday morning looking like this? He'd have to think outside the “walked into a door” excuse, that much was for sure.

Of course, right now it looking more like it was going to be a question of what Peter would think when his Saturday afternoon was ruined by the news that Neal had ditched the anklet and run. He could leave a note, he supposed. Or just pick up the phone and call Peter, and say... _what_ , exactly? Neal cringed at the many possible excuses, all of which really did kinda make Dyer sound like Bill Sykes. Which, although not so far off the mark, also happened to cast Neal as Oliver Twist. _No way_. He hadn't been a poor, helpless waif off the street then, and he wasn't one now. And he wasn't going to Peter with some sob story that implied anything of the kind.

 _Why not try starting with the_ truth, _then?_

Either the prompt was his conscience coming out of hibernation, or Neal was beginning to think in suspiciously Peter-like terms. Or maybe his conscience just sounded like _Peter_. Neal didn't know which of the three options was the most disturbing to consider.

But the sheer _rightness_ of the idea was suddenly, inescapably there, in his face, demanding that he recognize it as common sense. Neal was clever. He was smart. Brilliant, even. He just wasn't used to the answers to his dilemmas being as simple as “pick up the phone and call someone you trust”—probably because he'd never had anyone he could be sure would pick up, and listen, and then _do_ something.

Neal wasn't sure why, but the sudden image of Peter throttling the living daylights out Dyer flashed, unbidden, before his mind's eye.

He retrieved his cellphone (like his clothes, it was damp, but, thankfully, not dead), and speed-dialed Peter's cell. It went to voice-mail. Neal hesitated only a moment before calling the Burke home phone. When Elizabeth answered, however, he felt his determination waver. Her voice was cheerful, warm, and full of relaxed Saturday morning normalcy. Neal felt suddenly miserable at the thought of crashing her weekend by calling Peter away from her. The time he'd already taken from her—the time she would've had with Peter if Peter hadn't been chasing Neal—was one thing he'd stolen that he earnestly wished he could give back.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

“Elizabeth. It's Neal,” he confessed, when it sounded as if she was preparing to hang up.

“Oh—hi, Neal.”

The smile her tone telegraphed made Neal wince. “Hey. Hope I didn't wake you up.”

The smile in her tone increased. “You have a late night, honey?”

“Huh?”

“It's almost eleven,” she informed him with good humor. “I like a good sleep-in, but nine's usually pushing it for me.”

“Oh...no, I've been up for a while, too,” Neal lied. “I just haven't been keeping a close eye on the time. Lazy morning, you know? Making an omelet, working on some painting—that sort of stuff.”

“Mhmm.” For a minute it sounded as if she had further questions. Then she broke of with a soft girlish laugh, and he heard her muffled mock-scolding, presumably directed at Peter: “Stop it—” This was broken off by something that approached a giggle. Then (still laughing through her scolding): “Stop it— _stop it_ , Peter, that tickles. Go...put the orange juice on the table. And check the toast.” Another laugh followed, negating all sternness. “Go. _Now._ ” A pause. “Yes, yes, I'm coming—just a minute. It's Neal on the phone.” She spoke once more directly into the receiver. “Sorry, Neal. Peter's being juvenile.”

“What, again?” It was a flat sounding attempt at continuing the casual banter. Neal's half-smile fell in defeat. The sound of her carefree, contented laughter made his guilt complete.

Of course Elizabeth didn't miss any of this—even with a juvenile Peter clattering dishes in the background. “Neal, is something wrong?” she asked.

“I just...” He stopped, sighed heavily. “Sorry, Elizabeth. Didn't want to call on the weekend, but...”

“It's okay,” she said, gently, not-angrily— _worriedly._ “I'll get Peter.”

A minute later, Peter's voice came across the line, and even his warning, not-quite-welcoming “ _Neal_ ” sounded happy, only mildly suspicious, as if his world were currently too bright to be eclipsed by anything.

Great. He was officially dirt, now. A few half-baked lies began to formulate in Neal's mind, ways to back out gracefully before...

“Neal. What is it.” Peter was abruptly peremptory. He wasn't exactly angry—yet. Just blunt, and no-nonsense: no longer a man euphoric on domestic bliss, but the FBI agent recalled to duty.

“Last night, I...met someone.”

“I'm assuming she's gorgeous?” Peter asked dryly, humour already resurfacing.

Even though he knew it was petty of him, Neal found his temper flaring in response. He was sore, hungover, and trying to make the right choice. “Maybe you'd better go put that orange juice on the table,” he muttered, not caring if he sounded childishly resentful.

“Hey. C'mon.” Peter turned abruptly sober, all the teasing draining from his tone. “What's going on?”

“It's this guy I just ran into last night. I knew him...a long time ago.”

“How long ago are we talking?”

“I was fifteen. He...kind of took me in.”

“Kind of?”

“Well, actually, he didn't leave me much choice. Not after he found out I had a knack for using my honest face for dishonest means. You might say I turned out to be his 'golden goose.'”

“Neal...”

“Yeah, I know, Peter, I know. Listening to Neal Caffrey boast about more 'alleged crimes' wasn't what you had in mind for your Saturday, and I'm sure Elizabeth—”

“—This guy, he hurt you?” Peter interrupted bluntly, sounding impatient, but for different reasons than Neal had expected.

Neal looked down at his lap: at his hand, resting palm-up. He frowned at the scrapes that'd been left by the asphalt when he fell. Funny, he hadn't even felt them, at the time.

“Neal?” Peter pressed.

“Yeah, he did,” Neal answered, finally, feeling the heat rise up his neck in mortification at the confession. He hurried to clarify: “He'd just, you know...hit me around a bit, when he got bored of using the punching bag at the gym. Or when I got out of line. Or when he'd had one too many beers.” Or, a few times, because of a combination of all three.

“Broken bones?” Peter's voice was oddly gruff.

“Once or twice. He took me to the ER, though.” Neal wasn't sure why he'd added the last part, almost defensively, to Dyer's credit. Maybe he was trying to make it sound less like a classic case of manipulation and abuse. He'd been fifteen, for crying out loud, not five. He'd known he was being manipulated. He'd _taken_ his chance to “get out” when it'd had come.

“Name.” It wasn't a request.

“Dyer. Robert Dyer.”

“I take it he wasn't just interested in reminiscing.”

“Well, I guess you _could_ call it a trip down memory lane,” Neal joked feebly.

“He beat you up last night?” Peter demanded.

“I got in a blow or two, myself,” Neal pointed out, a bit peevishly. Though, if he were being strictly honest, it had pretty much just been the _one._ But he'd made it count for at least two. “And I wouldn't say he 'beat me up.' He was just reminding me...you know? That he could.”

Peter made a soft noise of frustration. “Why didn't you call me last night? Why didn't you call the _police_ last night?”

“Gee, Peter,” Neal huffed. “I never would've thought of that.”

“He stopped you.”

“Yeah. Definitely.”

“And after he left...”

“I was drunk,” Neal admitted, too weary to try and hedge. “We both got drunk. I didn't want to, I was trying to keep my head on straight, but he doesn't like drinking alone, so—”

“—You did what you had to do.”

“Peter...” Neal hated the difficulty he had keeping his voice steady. It had “victim” written all over it—when, really, it was just the hangover making him feel like road-kill. Sure, he wasn't up to par, but he wasn't a _victim._ Victims needed— _deserved_ —therapy. All Neal needed was Dyer _gone_. He cleared his throat to inform Peter, levelly: “He wants me to go back into 'business' with him again. He's coming back.”

“When?”

“I don't know. This afternoon. If he's as hungover as I am, probably not for an hour or two, yet.”

“Okay.” Peter had on his most determined, problem-solving voice. “Here's what we're going to do—”

“—Um, Peter?” Neal interrupted. “Whatever we're going to do, let's just do it fast. 'Cause he's kind of...downstairs, leaning on the doorbell. Now.”

Peter swore, less softly this time. “I'm coming, Neal—with backup. Bluff. Go with the flow. Just...don't go anywhere, okay?”

As if—wearing the anklet—Neal would be going anywhere Peter couldn't easily find him. At the moment it held a world of ironic reassurance. Peter barging into June's house, with backup, sounded pretty nice, too. “Yeah. I'll be here.” He felt stupidly compelled to add: “Tell Elizabeth I'm sorry for crashing her weekend.”

Neal could tell Peter was moving, now, as he spoke—could hear the door being opened, and concerned murmur of Elizabeth's voice in the background.

“ _Elizabeth_ says meatloaf's for dinner,” Peter answered wryly, “and that you'd better come back with me tonight, in one piece, to eat it.”

Neal felt oddly abandoned when the connection ended. _Cowboy up_ , he thought in self-admonishment, heading towards the stairs. June had given all the household staff the weekend off. So it was just him and Dyer, again.

But bluffing...bluffing he could do. So long he kept up the pretence that he'd go along with whatever Dyer had in mind, Dyer wouldn't have any reason to repeat last night.

By the time Neal got to the door, Dyer had given up on the doorbell and resorted to pounding on the door itself.

“Took you long enough,” he complained, brushing past Neal as soon as he'd gained admittance.

Neal followed him up the stairs, relegated to the role of a guest in his own home as Dyer went about making himself comfortable, opening the refrigerator and rummaging through the cupboards, assembling a sandwich, and generally inviting himself to do everything short of propping muddy feet up on the table. That liberty wasn't out of the question, yet, either, as Dyer sat down at the table, stuffing his face and looking smug.

Neal found his headache redoubling. He started to scrub a hand over his face—then stopped, remembering the cut, and the bruises.

“I think I'll...go find some Tylenol, or something. Head's killing me.” Neal didn't wait for Dyer's permission, but he half expected an objection as he headed for the bathroom.

Dyer did call after him, but only to bellow for Neal to bring enough for two.

Inspiration was a funny thing. For Neal, it generally came when he was least expecting it. Sometimes, finding the solution to a problem meant taking a sidelong, peripheral view of it, instead of staring at it directly. Sometimes, you went in search of Tylenol, and found yourself with a very different solution to your headache.

Inspiration, this time, took on the form of a bottle of prescription sleep-aid sitting on Neal's counter. With raised eyebrow, Neal studied the small, brown-glass bottle with black eye-dropper cap. For a moment, he was unable to recall how it'd made it's way into his bathroom. But then he remembered.

Mozzie had been well and truly buzzed a couple of nights ago: alternating between utter glee and utter apprehension over a fence he was about to make for a friend, the next day. Amid typical Mozzie chatter, Neal had picked up little about the actual object being fenced (or why Mozzie was so buzzed about it). What he _had_ been able to ascertain was that (a) Mozzie planned on crashing on Neal's couch that night, with the aid of the liquid in the brown bottle he'd brought, and (b) that the reason he was crashing on Neal's couch was because he didn't _trust_ the contents of said little brown bottle. Or, more accurately, he trusted it to put him to sleep _too_ well, and needed Neal to “watch his back.”

What caught Neal's attention, now, was the memory of Mozzie taking the stuff—and all but passing out mid-verbalized-thought, fifteen minutes later. It had been quite the job, dragging a semi-lucid Mozzie to the couch.

Neal set the bottle down on the counter, and while he found the Tylenol his mind was working, ruminating on the possibility crystallizing in his mind's eye, weighing risk and reward.

Reward won. He pocketed the bottle, and returned at a perfected casual saunter, heading over the fridge and pulling out the pitcher of orange juice. He offered to pour Dyer a glass. Dyer accepted without even looking over his shoulder. Really, he made it almost boring. It was just a matter of pouring the juice and adding a couple of the drops. Hardly the stuff of adrenaline rushes.

Only this was _Dyer_ , and for some reason that made all the difference. Maybe because Neal had never really stood up to him. He'd mouthed off. He'd had moments of full-blown teenage rebellion, classic snotty remarks included, where he'd yelled at Dyer (and paid for it, afterwards). In the end, he'd run. But none of that was the same as hitting back. It wasn't success.

But Neal saw the crucial _why_ of if all, now. _Why_ he'd never fought back with anything but words. He had never _really_ hit back, because hitting back—in the literal sense—had never been his style, and never would be. Dyer used his fists. Neal used his brain.

And now, as he watched Dyer knock back the small glass of orange juice, gulping it in one go, Neal realized something else, too. He could have run sooner. Those six months of hell could have been reduced to weeks, or days. _A_ day, even. But Neal had been too busy fighting Dyer. Neal hadn't wanted to run, because he hadn't wanted to admit defeat. He just hadn't known how to really _win_ — _his_ way—then. So he'd done the second best thing, and made himself a world-class pain in Dyer's neck. He'd been good at it, too. Really good. Words could be a versatile art: woven, and crafted, with limitless end designs in mind.

The only flaw in Neal's plan had been Dyer's temper. Or maybe that had been the design Neal had been weaving with his words all along—taking a perverse pleasure in seeing Dyer pushed to the limits of his endurance, no matter the back-lash, or how many times Neal experienced its sting.

“What're you staring at?” Dyer grumbled morosely.

“Nothing.” Neal averted his gaze, and made note of the time, as designated by the microwave's clock : 11: 04. “Just wishing the Tylenol would hurry up and kick in.” Among other things.

“Tell me about it,” Dyer grunted, massaging his temples. He looked around at the apartment, as if seeing it for the first time. After last night, his brain was probably serving up some pretty foggy memories. “When I said 'cushy,' I didn't realize how right I was.” He nodded, as if to bestow his official approval on the place. “I assume this means you've been doing pretty okay for yourself.”

“Pretty okay,” Neal agreed dryly. He sat down across from Dyer.

“You got something in the works, now?” Dyer inquired, talking through the last bite of his sandwich.

Neal tried not to look too openly disgusted. Dismal etiquette alone should've had this guy locked up years ago. “You could say that.”

Dyer waited a heartbeat. A heartbeat, apparently, being about all his patience could endure. “ _Well_ ,” he said, then, pointedly. “Don't try playing coy with me now, kid. You've already had your fun, playing hard to get. I thought we'd settled this last night.”

 _Bluff. Go with the flow._ Peter's words came back to Neal in warning, coaching him to proceed with caution.

“Yeah, Rob.” Neal dipped his head, feeling painfully obsequious for all the mildness of the temporary compromise. “Yeah. I got something in the works.”

Dyer regarded Neal from beneath heavy lids—heavy with suspicion, not encroaching sleep. “You said some stupid things last night, Neal. Stupid things I'm going to let slide, for now.”

Neal lifted his shoulders, and let them drop in a half-hearted shrug. “I was drunk. I say stupid things when I'm drunk.” True things, but stupid.

Dyer snorted in agreement, and for a minute he almost looked fond. Like an owner might look at an unruly puppy. “Lightweight,” he said, with a small, condescending guffaw.

Neal gritted his teeth through a smile. “Yeah, that's me.” The clock read 11: 07.

From there, Dyer went off into a tangent. Some convoluted tale that (predictably) involved beer, and some woman he'd picked up (conveniently) at a bar, and who had wound up slapping him—unfairly, without any provocation, of course—and leaving him in the course of their first date.

For once, Neal didn't mind listening to Dyer babble. Or, at least, he didn't mind as much as he would have under any other circumstances. The story bought him him six whole minutes, after all. Dyer had to be feeling the stuff by now. _“Take 15-20 minutes before bedtime”_ the label had said. It hadn't sounded like so long to wait. In theory. In practice, it brought the “time standing still” cliche to mind. At this rate, Peter would get there, first. Which wouldn't be so bad, either. Whatever happened sooner, rather than later, would suit Neal just fine.

Dyer trailed off, shaking his head at the mystery of fickle, unreasonable womankind.

“More orange juice?” Neal offered.

“No.” Dyer gave him a sharp look. “To business. Let's hear more about what you're working on. I'm open. You know my bottom-line. _Our_ bottom-line.” He rubbed thumb and fingers together, mouthing “mulah.” Then he sat back in his chair and smiled—that loose-lipped, ugly smirk. “Tell me what you're thinkin', Caff.”

The smirk, combined with the open-ended invitation, was simply too much. Oh, yeah. And then there was the “Caff” part, too. Neal could've gone the rest of his life without hearing that particular nickname again. Dyer knew exactly how much he hated it.

“I think you've made a mess out of your life,” Neal began, surprised and pleased by his own clinical calm, “which makes you an idiot. And you actually expect me to jump at the chance to clean up the mess you've made, which makes you a _deluded_ idiot.” Neal shrugged. “Not that any of the above surprises me. I could go on, too.” At length, and using more colorful adjectives, even. “Suffice it say, you _do_ stink, and your taste in clothes just plain sucks. And I've never had fun with you.” Neal smiled broadly. “Ever.”

There, he'd said it. Sober. He was rewarded with a repeat of the bug-eyed stare from Dyer—and then some colorful adjectives, as Dyer lunged across the table at Neal.

Neal stood, backing out of reach. Dyer rounded the table, advancing with him, right fist raised with clear intention.

“Come here, you little—”

Dyer never finished. His fist never made contact. Neal ducked, and then launched himself forward, ramming Dyer in the chest, and shoving with all the strength he possessed.

Dyer gave a breathless “omph” of surprise, staggering backwards, stumbling, falling.

Neal had never taken in a sight with more satisfaction than he did that of Dyer, sitting on the floor, blinking up at him, comically dumbfounded. He looked owlish and bewildered, as if unable to comprehend how he'd gotten there.  
“Man,” he moaned, with a small shake of his head, as if trying to clear blurry vision, “my head... All weird. Suddenly...really, tired. _Caffrey_...” he gritted, trying to get up off the floor, fumbling ineffectually at the endeavour. “Whaddidyou...”

“Oh. That would be this.” Neal produced the bottle from his pocket, flourishing it so that Dyer could squint at it. “ _'A good night's sleep: guaranteed,''_ ” he read, from the label, adding solemnly, “ _'or your money back. That's our promise.'_ ”

Dyer was fighting it: growling like a bear woken from hibernation. Or, more aptly, like a bear _fighting_ hibernation. But his eyes were clearly getting heavy. He made it halfway to his feet, before he slumped back to the floor, mumbling vague, drowsy threats in Neal's direction.

And so it was into a question-inducing scene that Peter entered several minutes later, panting from the adrenaline of running yellow lights, and pushing the limit on speed limits, and taking the stairs two at a time.

“Neal?” he asked, frowning as he looked from Neal to Dyer's sprawled and snoring form, and back to Neal again. “What happened?”

“I won,” Neal could only reply with satisfaction, and a growing sense of freedom.

***

“Wrong way, Peter,” Neal pointed out, unable to dredge up more than a mild tone of objection.

Peter didn't reply to this, only pointed out in turn: “You're smudging the glass.” He sounded even less motivated than Neal to do anything about his complaint.

“Feels nice.” Neal made no movement to sit up, or remove the side of his face from the passenger-door window. The vibration of the moving car was making his nose itch, but he wasn't about to give up his pseudo ice-pack.

“That pill working?”

“Mhmm.” Whatever they'd given him, it hadn't made the numerous aches and pains go away, exactly, but it had made them all matter a whole lot less.

“Keep telling you, buddy: hospitals are your friend.”

Neal didn't feel like commenting on that with his mind in its current state of mush, so instead he reminded Peter more firmly: “Still going the wrong way. Apartment's back...there.” He cast his gaze sideways and watched Peter's face, in profile, narrowing his eyes irritably when Peter's lips curved into a small smile. “C'mon, I'm too tired for the scenic route. Turn 'round.”

“Sheesh, Grumpy. Take a nap,” Peter suggested, but with that small, lenient smile still in place.

 _“Peter_...”

“Nuh uh. None of that. Meatloaf for dinner, remember? El called while you were being patched up in ER. I'm under strict orders, here.”

Neal gave a moan that was intended to sound pathetic. Actually, going to Peter's for dinner didn't sound so bad. Maybe it even sounded kind of nice. Not that Neal would admit that, at least not to Peter. “Just don't 'spect entertainment,” he warned. “M'beat.”

Peter's expression turned strangely serious for a moment. “Yeah,” he said softly, and then gave a small huff of laughter. “Well, I'll let you off the hook this time. No shadow puppet show, tonight.”

“M'good at shadow puppets, you know,” Neal's pride compelled him to boast. “Used to practice on the wall, all the time, after I was supposed to be asleep.” _That_ bit of irrelevant honesty was probably just compelled by the remnants of the morning's hangover, and the afternoon's drama, and the evening's drugs.

“Peter?” Neal asked, after they'd driven in comfortable since for several more minutes.

“Hmm?”

“They're not going to be able to lock him away for very long.”

Peter sighed. “Assault's a start. We've got the photographic evidence of the damage he's done to you. With any luck, it'll be called second degree. We'll do our best.”

Despite the euphoria of successfully knocking Dyer out with the sleeping pills—and the satisfaction of seeing his limp carcass hauled out in handcuffs—Neal was having a hard time feeling the optimism. “He knows where I live now. It's not like I can just pick up and relocate.”

“That's what restraining orders are for. We'll get one of those, too. I'll make sure of it.”

Neal snorted. There was some irony in the idea of Neal being restrained to his radius, and Dyer being restrained from entering it. “Yeah,” he agreed, without placing too much faith in the thought.

Peter spared his eyes from the road long enough to shoot him a look. “You don't think it'll work.”

“I think, after what I just did, he'll take the first chance he gets to do what he's been promising he'd do from the start, if I didn't do what he wanted.”

“What's that?” Peter's tone said he already suspected. More than suspected.

“Kill me,” Neal informed him, dispassionately. The threat felt at once imminent after having seen Dyer again, and, at the same time, faint and far off, because he'd seen Dyer being loaded into the police car to be taken off to a holding cell somewhere.

“Yeah, well, that's not gonna happen.”

Neal gave him a curious look. “You shouldn't drive angry. Clouds your judgement.”

Peter just continued to stare at the road. More than simply _cloudy_ , his judgement was beginning to look completely dark and overcast, with possible thunder-heads forming in the distance. “He's not coming after you again, Neal.”

“What? _You're_ going to kill him?”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“Really?” The thought shouldn't have warmed Neal. It did.

“More than once.”

“You haven't even met the guy. Least not when he's awake.”

“Don't need to.”

“Peter... You know I could be making all of this up.” That was definitely the drugs or the exhaustion compelling him. Still, it only felt fair to give the warning. Peter had always brought out Neal's most sporting side. “It's really my word against Dyer's. You can't know he made me steal anything in the past. You can't really _know_ I'm in any way innocent, here.”

Peter spared him another glance. “Yeah. Yeah, I can.”

“I like to steal things.”

“Not chump change, for a guy like Dyer. And don't tell me you like being beaten to a bloody pulp, either.”

“Not so much.”

“There you have it, then. I believe you.”

“I'm still not a victim,” Neal muttered. “I got him in the end, didn't I?”

“You did.” Peter nodded his head a few times, with a chuckle of approval. “Which is one reason he won't be coming back. Not a bully and a coward like Dyer.”

“And the other reason?”

“Leave that one to me.”

Neal shifted his face to smudge a new, colder section of the window, letting it numb his throbbing temple. His first reaction was mistrust. His second was simply: “'Kay, Peter.”

***

Since Peter had arrived at Neal's apartment, the refrain of the day had turned into “I'm not a victim.” But every time Peter got a look at the damage Dyer had done to Neal's face, all he heard was “child abuse charges.” No amount of reminding himself that Neal was grown man diminished the feeling. Even at fifteen, he had no doubts that Neal had possessed a strong independent streak; that didn't make the idea of what Dyer had done any easier to think about, and keep control of his temper at the same time.

But Neal clearly wouldn't appreciate any of those sentiments. He wasn't a victim, after all, he could take care of himself, as he was adamant in reminding Peter.

From the moment Elizabeth opened the door and ushered them inside, however, getting her first look at the bruises on Neal's face, Peter could tell she was exactly of the same mindset as he himself was.

To Peter's bemusement, Neal bore her instant hovering with a mien of good grace that bordered on something like actual enjoyment, or at least suspiciously not _un_ happy sheepishness. Peter couldn't begrudge him a bit of pity, though. From the look of him, he _needed_ some motherly pats on the head right then, and all the soft, caring exclamations of sympathy over his injures that he would take. Since neither of those fell within Peter's jurisdiction, he was more than willing to stand by and let El take over.

El hadn't heard the whole story of what had happened with Dyer. But Neal was worn, and hurt, and there on her doorstep—so clearly a victim, to everyone but himself, even if an ultimately triumphant victim—and it was more than enough for her.

“Smells good,” Neal commented, as they headed for the table. Satchmo followed with his tail wagging in hesitant, yet hopeful, expectation, waiting for some attention (or, better, some meatloaf) to come his way.

“I know what you're thinking...” El began, teasingly argumentative. She ducked into the kitchen, re-emerging with a platter of sliced meat in hand, and finished: “Meatloaf isn't a gourmet's dream come true.”

“I'm sure it's delicious,” Neal hazarded—with just the faintest touch of too much careful guilelessness to be taken at face value.

“Just _try_ it before you give it that dubious look,” Elizabeth instructed, with a show of supposed sternness, dishing plates and passing them down the table. “It's an old family favourite.”

“Tastes good with ketchup, too,” Peter inserted helpfully.

But Neal—taking his first bite, chewing and swallowing it with a thoughtfully considering expression—gave Peter an affronted look. “Ketchup? Seriously, Peter?”

“I know,” Elizabeth lamented, ruefully. “Believe me, he'd put it on potato chips if I didn't draw the line somewhere.”

Peter just made a disgruntled noise, and continued eating. Trying to argue food with those two would've been less than futile. He didn't see the big difference between potato chips and french fries, or why putting ketchup on the second was somehow less sacrilegious than putting it on the first. Ketchup, as far he was concerned, pretty much made any good entree better, and any not-so-good entree at least palatable. It was one of those survival tools. BBQ sauce made a good Plan B, too.

But no need to open his mouth and offend the gods of Fine Cuisine—not to mention risking drawing fire from the fiends of Fine Cuisine sitting at his table. There was always a breakfast of ketchup on cold meatloaf leftovers to look forward to.

“This is really, really good,” Neal said, decisively, between bites, giving immediate credence to his own review by proceeding to devour the piece on his plate with a diligence that was so honestly and openly ravenous it made Peter exchange an amused smile with Elizabeth over the top of his head.

“Can't go wrong, stuffing it with mozzarella and ham,” El averred, beaming all the same. “You want another piece?”

And so the doting continued.

After dinner, Peter left to take Satchmo on a walk. When he returned, Neal was with Elizabeth in the kitchen, helping with the dishes.

A suitably sarcastic comment was on the tip of Peter's tongue to deliver at the sight of Caffrey involved in such a domestic scene. Under his roof. With his wife. _Again._ But the words died unspoken as he really stopped to take it all in. Neal, with his shirtsleeves rolled up, rinsing dishes and loading them into the dishwasher, and all the while talking animatedly about God-knew-what. It never really mattered what Neal talked about. Words were just so much putty in his hands—and Elizabeth, putting the remnants of the meatloaf into a Tupperware container, was laughing over whatever he was saying with complete abandon.

So maybe it was only natural to be a bit jealous of a guy with Neal's looks—and maybe it made it twice as easy to be jealous and suspicious because it was Neal wearing those looks. But somewhere along the line Neal had started to _fit_ , here, under Peter's roof—even in the kitchen, washing dishes, and making El laugh. He was no longer an interloper, and if Peter was honest with himself all wife-stealing accusations were simple habit. He trusted El.

Caffrey, maybe not so much. But when it came to his intentions as regarded Elizabeth? (Or, rather, his proper lack of _any_ intentions _whatsoever_.) Yeah. That was one area _he_ knew that _Neal_ knew was off-limits.

Even if “with suspicion” was the only sane way to regard Caffrey on a daily basis, Peter couldn't find it in him to resent the kid right then, especially just for being himself. Because, even on a bad day, when Caffrey _deserved_ a chewing out, it was hard to resent him for being himself. Tonight, with his face a painful assortment of developing black-and-blue smudges, and his eyes full of finally thawing hurt and dread, it was downright impossible.

It didn't exactly help nurture suspicion, either, when your presence was greeted by a mega-watt smile, and a “hey, Peter” of the really-and-truly glad to see you variety. It kind of reminded Peter of Satchmo, actually: the way Neal could greet you back from a ten minute walk with the same exuberance he would've greeted you after you'd been gone on a ten day vacation. And wouldn't Neal love to hear _that_ analogy.

El chimed in with “pecan pie for dessert,” and before long they were ensconced in the living room, eating off paper plates—because both El and Neal had objected to the idea of making more dishes to clean. Yeah, Neal was definitely no longer “company,” if he'd ever really fit into the formality of that role to begin with.

Ten minutes later, Neal fell asleep partway through eating his slice of pie. Peter snagged the plate off his knees, and took the fork as it began to slide from nerveless fingers.

El handed Peter her own empty plate for him to discard on his trip to the kitchen, whispering for him to save the rest of Neal's pie—Neal could have it for breakfast. Peter gave her a raised eyebrow, mouthing in disbelief, “For breakfast?” She gave him a serene look back. Yeah, Neal was definitely scoring sympathy points, tonight. _Pie_ for breakfast. Neal would probably wake up in the morning with his hair sticking up at odd angles, the bruises on his face fully developed, and offer her a sleepy smile. Naturally, at that point El would probably offer him the _rest_ of the pie, too. Or, God forbid, the meatloaf.

Peter returned to the living room to find El had effectively tucked Neal in by pulling his feet up onto the couch and draping a blanket over him. But her look was fiercer than he'd expected, as she stood surveying her handiwork.

“Honey?”

“Someone really deserves to be hurt for— _this_.” She whispered back fiercely, jerking her chin in Neal's direction. “Why would anyone want to beat Neal up?”

As regarded criminals, the question would seem to answer itself. Neal, of course, wasn't most criminals. Maybe hating violence didn't automatically exempt you from being on the receiving end of it—but for a guy who hated it so passionately, it sure seemed like Neal should've been cut some slack every once in a while from being flung about so callously by life.

Certainly, it was easy to understand the disbelief and outrage in Elizabeth's voice, what with said “criminal” lying on their couch, currently looking like the poster-child for abuse victims, not to mention painfully young and innocent.

“Because he could,” Peter answered her, finally. “Because it was easy.” _Because he thought Neal was so much putty in his hands._

“Was it revenge? Did Neal do something to this guy in the past?”

Peter sighed. He wasn't sure how much he should tell her; how much Neal would want her to know; how much she _needed_ to know. She already looked ready to spit fire: maternal instincts clearly in full working order. Of course, that probably meant her keen sense of intuition was also on high alert. “Let's just say that before today I'd never thought I'd actually _believe_ Neal if he told me there were crimes he'd had no choice but to commit,” he answered quietly.

“Is Neal going to be in trouble over this?” she asked, in sudden alarm.

Peter shook his head. He came closer, wrapping an arm around her waist, squeezing gently. “All he did was defend himself, hon. And my guess? This guy—Dyer—probably has a history of violence. Neal was fifteen when they first met. If Dyer had a nasty temper back _then_ , and a tendency to take it out on people...”

Elizabeth's expression became fractionally harder. “ _Fifteen_ ,” she repeated with a small shake of her head. “Tell me the guy's going to be serving time for this.”

“If I have any say in the matter, plenty of it.”

Elizabeth nodded, but still looked far from satisfied. She tilted her head to rest it against his shoulder, sighing: “I'd like to give this _Dyer_ a piece of my mind.”

“Well, he's not going to get away without getting a piece of _mine_ ,” Peter stated in a low voice.

“Make it good, hon,” El's hushed tone sounded at least mildly appeased at the idea.

Peter just gave her her waist another squeeze. He'd make it good, alright. And if Dyer knew what was good for him, he'd listen to every last word.

***

“Mr. Dyer,” Peter acknowledged with a nod.

“Mr....”

“Special Agent Burke,” Peter corrected.

Dyer rested his hands on the table, 'cuffs clinking against the surface. He gave Peter what was probably supposed to be his best “unimpressed, tough-guy” look. Instead, he merely looked disgruntled, miserable, and unkempt.

“What do you want with me, _Special Agent_ Burke?”

Peter folded his arms casually across his chest, letting the stale, echoing noises of prison fill the void for a minute: buzzers, and clanging doors, and muffled orders.

A light bulb all but appeared over Dyer's head, eyes lighting up with realization. “You're here about Caffrey.” He was triumphant. “I knew he had to be into something big, with an apartment like that. Guy's a crook—a con. As slippery as they come. Don't let those oh-so-innocent blue eyes fool you. But I guess you guys know all that already, right?”

“Yeah,” Peter agreed, not without humor, letting Dyer feel like he had the upper hand for a brief moment. “We know all about Caffrey.”

“So I'm getting out of here, then. I mean, clearly, the guy's lying. He's a professional liar. He _drugged_ me. Oh—and he hit me good in the chest, too. I'm lucky I don't have cracked ribs.”

“You gave him a few things to remember you by, yourself,” Peter stated coolly.

Dyer frowned. “ _Caffrey's_ not the victim, here.”

“And you are?” Peter let disdain color his voice.

Dyer's frown deepened. “Look, I don't know what he's been telling you guys, but he's the one who should be in a cell. You've got him locked up, right?”

“Actually...” Peter pursed his lips in a show of consideration, before shaking his head. “Right about now, my wife's probably making him a late breakfast. He crashed on our couch last night after dinner—fell asleep in the middle of dessert. Kind of a bad habit of his, dropping off to sleep like that, especially when he's on pain meds, but I didn't have the heart to wake him up just to send him home.”

Dyer obviously didn't know how to take this information.

Peter spelled it out for him: “Caffrey's already been caught, Dyer. He's out on probation after agreeing to assist our white-collar unit on cases. He's part of my team.”

The cogs and wheels were really spinning, now. “He works for...the Feds?”

“One of the best CIs we've got.”

“Doesn't mean he's the innocent one, here,” Dyer countered, self-righteously.

“But he is,” Peter said quietly, with confidence that he'd rarely been able to have when it came to something involving Neal. “And he was _then_ , too, wasn't he?”

Dyer stiffened. “Don't know what you're talking about, Agent Burke.”

There were too many reasons digging into Neal's past “acquaintance” with Dyer—in an official, investigative sense—was a moot point. At this point, there was no evidence (except for Neal's word) of any of the abuse. As for the crimes Dyer had manipulated him into committing, on the one hand there was the statute of limitations on Neal's side, not to mention the fact that...

“He was still a minor,” Peter stated levelly. “Anything he did, you're more likely to get in trouble for than he is.”

Dyer scoffed. “More like a major pain in the—”

“—You can't afford to open that can of worms,” Peter interrupted. “It'll only go the worse for you in the end.”

“Are you threatening me?”

Peter smiled. “Only with the effectiveness of due process, Mr. Dyer. You're not afraid of justice, are you?”

Dyer told Peter exactly what he could do with his “due process” and “justice.”

“I'd let your attorney rephrase that sentiment for you at your hearing, if I were you,” Peter suggested off-handedly. “You're going to need all the help you can get.”

“Because I'm so much trouble.” Dyer snorted. “You mean for hitting the kid around?”

“Your assault on Neal Caffrey's just the tip of the iceberg, the way I hear it.”

“Who says?” Dyer shot back, petulantly.

“The officer who brought you in, for a start. Turns out your record's not terribly flattering. Indecent public behaviour? Brawling? Attacking an _ATM machine_?” Peter winced in mock sympathy before finishing with emphasis: “That's not to mention destruction of Federal property. Ouch. That's a felony, right there. Throwing rocks at police cars isn't a smart move, especially when you're within view of the dash-cam.” Judging by the way Dyer's eyes widened a fraction, it was news to him that he'd been caught red-handed, his drunken bit of fun “witnessed” by an empty police car. “But I shouldn't go into any more of that, not without your lawyer present.”

Dyer had a few unfiltered sentiments about lawyers to air, too.

“Well, that's your choice, Dyer. I really came here for another reason.”

“What's that?” Dyer was sullen in the face of Peter's cheerful calm.

Peter leaned in, confidentially. “I don't know how long they're going to lock you away for, Dyer. More than likely, five to ten years, if they find you guilty of half the stuff I just mentioned.”

Dyer mumbled some more general insults, but his attitude was becoming increasingly subdued.

“When you do get out,” Peter continued, “there's going to be a restraining order on you.” They made eye contact. “If you ever try to contact him, or threaten to harm him again, we'll be having another conversation.”

“Now you _are_ threatening me.”

“I'm giving you the best advice of your life,” Peter contradicted, coldly. “Neal Caffrey isn't a fifteen-year-old kid on his own anymore. He's got a home, and he's got friends who care about him—and he doesn't manipulate easily.” _And I've spent too long working to get him on the straight and narrow to have a moron like you come in and ruin the prospects in life he's finally beginning to earn by going clean._

Dyer swallowed thickly under Peter's uncompromising stare, and Peter knew the message had been received.

But far be it from a braggart and bully like Dyer to let the conversation end with that.

“Too much of a headache, anyway.” Dyer laughed. “Always was high maintenance, the Caff. Kid's not worth it.”

Peter left, deciding it was as close to a promise as he was going to get. Dyer would be getting another visit as a reminder—once he'd served his time. Hopefully he'd still remember just how much of a headache “the Caff” was after he was out of prison. Either way, the restraining order would be ready, and so would Peter.

The tension of anger had time to bleed away on his drive home. Dyer's last words kept replaying in his mind. High maintenance. A headache. Admittedly, Neal could be both.

 _“Kid's not worth it.”_

That was the part that drew Peter up short, and gave him a surge of fresh anger. Dyer really was an idiot if that was his conclusion—his final summary of Neal.

Peter pulled into the driveway, and sat for a moment, grounding himself back in the present. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon. The guy who'd hurt Neal was behind bars. Moreover, Peter was _home_. All of which meant that the Peter Burke whose name was prefaced by “Special Agent” could go back to the office and wait for him until tomorrow. Today he could be just Peter for a while.

Peter opened the front door, the sounds within leading him towards the kitchen.

“Hey Peter,” Neal greeted, smiling broadly. He stood with a hip leaned against the kitchen counter, a plate of meatloaf in hand. “Elizabeth ran to get a few groceries. Should be back any minute.” He set his fork on his plate long enough to reach down and scratch an extremely attentive Satchmo behind the ear. “Where were you, anyway?”

“I'll tell you about it later.”

Neal gave him a suspicious look, as if he sensed all. But he shrugged, then, and took another bite of meatloaf, chewing thoughtfully and swallowing. “Thanks for letting me use the couch.”

“I think it's got your name on it by now.”

Neal just smiled and ate more meatloaf, unrepentantly. This was Caffrey. He knew _exactly_ the kind of sympathy a bruised and battered face, tousled hair, and sleep-rumpled clothes could buy him.

“There's more meatloaf in the fridge,” Neal pointed out, and added generously, “I won't even tell Elizabeth if you use the ketchup.”

Peter muttered at Neal—warnings about coming between a federal agent and his sauce of choice—and watched Neal smirk in satisfaction. He decided right then and there that Dyer didn't know a thing about worthwhile endeavours.


End file.
